I close the exam door behind us, but I don’t let go of Mouse’s leash. He’s lost roaming privileges.
“He’s a good dog once he settles down and gets to know you,” Madeleine says, trying to vouch for him.
“I’d say we were pretty well acquainted this morning.”
She crosses her arms and leans against the wall, nibbling on her lip nervously.
“How long have you had Mouse?” I ask, changing the subject. Although I could easily find the information in the chart, I want to learn it from her.
“A few weeks.”
I nod and force myself to look back at the chart.
“I got him from the shelter as a puppy. Well, more of a puppy than now.”
She says it like that will win her sympathy.
“What breed of dog did they tell you he was?”
“I believe the word they used was multinational. Something like that.”
I smile. “He’s a Bernese Mountain Dog.”
“No. They said he was a small lab mix.”
“And you trusted them,” I reply with a flat tone. “Now you’re the proud owner of an untrained dog that will weigh more than you. Your small lab mix is going to easily be 120 pounds by next month.”
“First of all, thank you for the compliment. Secondly, I don’t care what he’ll weigh—I just didn’t want him to get killed.” She pushes off the wall and yanks Mouse’s leash away from me. “I’m sorry, do you interrogate all of your patients? Or is this some kind of special treatment?”
I look down at Mouse, who’s staring up at me fondly. I like him much more than his owner. “You’re not my patient, he is.”
“Right, well, if you’re finished, he just needs his next round of shots.” She checks the watch on her slender wrist. “And I really need to get to work.”
An assistant comes into the room with Mouse’s shots, and it takes no time at all to administer them. He’s docile and sweet, especially when I hold a treat out for him while I stick him with the needle.
“There. All set.”
Madeleine is looking at her phone and shaking her head. “No. No. No.”
“What?”
“Are you 100% positive about his breed?”
I’m guessing she’s been doing some Googling.
Now, I have to laugh. “Yes. I’m positive. We can send off a DNA sample if you’d like.”
She turns her phone around and shows me a photo of an adult male Bernese Mountain Dog. “He’s going to be…well, a mountain!”
Though I shouldn’t seek retribution, seeing her shock slightly makes up for the ordeal this morning. I feel much better when I walk out of that exam room. I’m scanning the next chart when I let myself dwell on her for a second. Even with the annoying first impression, it’s obvious she’s beautiful. I studied her surreptitiously during the exam, mainly because she was being so quiet—I wanted to make sure she wasn’t doing anything nefarious. Still, it seemed like a waste not to take in the details. She was dressed for work in a cream sheath dress that was tight and cut perfectly for her long legs. Her hair was a rich brown, long, and curled softly down her back. The fact that she was in great shape probably has something to do with lugging Mouse around all day. Maybe on another day, I’d find her irresistible—but here, today, there are too many reasons to push her to the back of my mind and move on to the next customer.
And I do. I forget all about her.
Right up until I walk into my bedroom that evening and trip over my crumpled, dirty suit.
Chapter 3
Madeleine
Today, I think I finally see why my mother adoringly refers to me as her “lost cause”. For years I fought the nickname, arguing that my generation actually tries hard to cultivate the hipster image of not having one’s life together. But my ruse falls apart when I line up next to my older brother. He’s a doctor. Married. Good hair. You know the type. The fact that he’s a wonderful big brother only makes matters worse. He’s never missed a birthday. He always makes a point to call me at least once a week, even now that he’s back in Hamilton, though I mostly ignore these phone calls because he’s married to my best friend, Daisy. I don’t have time to talk to them both, and anything I tell her, she can pass along to him.
Not to mention, lately I feel like he’s been operating as a spy for our mom during these weekly chats. He can’t help but ask about my job, my future, my investment holdings, my love life—can’t we just argue politics or religion like a normal dysfunctional family?
Even now, there’s a voicemail from him waiting for me on my cell phone, telling me about a housewarming party, but I have no time to call him back because I’m currently circling the toilet bowl of life. I’m late for work again, and I’m tripping into my heels as I rush out the door. My coffee is in one hand. My keys and cell phone balance precariously in the other. A banana is wedged in my mouth and a granola bar tucks into the front of my bra. I bolt out of my apartment, lock up, and turn just in time to find my landlord, Mr. Hall, pruning his herb garden across the covered pathway. He looks so innocent with those tiny shears, but I know better. Those damn herbs have already been trimmed to perfection. He’s outside, pretending to garden for another reason.
“Ah, Madeleine, there you are,” he says, removing his protective eyewear. As if stray rosemary clippings are the most underreported causes of gardening death in America.
I rush past him, waving as I go. After all, with my banana in place, I can hardly carry on a conversation.
“I need to talk to you about rent!” he shouts after me.
I wave again and then add a thumbs up just for good measure. I hold out hope that he means Rent the musical, but I’m reasonably sure it’s about money. I’m not sure why he bothers. Mr. Hall and I have a very healthy arrangement going where he asks for rent on the first of the month and I pay him piecewise on the subsequent days of the month. But what I lack in timely payment, I make up for in baked goods. Mr. Hall hasn’t wanted for banana bread in the three years I’ve lived here. Muffins, cookies, and cakes have rained down on him like some sort of delicious plague from the Book of Revelations.
I do recognize, however, that I’m pushing it more than normal this month. I’m majorly overdue, but I have every intention of paying him—just as soon as I make it to work and earn a commission. That’s just what I intend to do, if only my car would start. It likes to pretend it’s going to fail on me once or twice a month. I slide onto the faded seat and twist the key, and it putters morosely.
“Come onnnnn,” I groan, twisting the key again.
There’s a low clicking noise, like it wants to start as desperately as I want it to.
I mimic the people in movies and TV, pumping the lifeless gas pedal before twisting the key once more, nearly hard enough to break it in two. The starter clicks pathetically and then, by some miracle, my car sputters to life.
“YES. THANK YOU!” I shout to myself, banging my hands against the steering wheel.
I do not have time for car issues this morning. I look at the bright red clock on my dashboard; I’m already five minutes late for our staff meeting. By the time I pull into the last available spot at the agency, I’m nearing the dreaded ten-minute mark. By that point, I should just feign illness and go home. But, as it is now, I skate into the room by the skin of my teeth and a half-dozen pairs of eyes snap up to look at me.